Hands
by PoppySam
Summary: Harry doesn't know what he wants. Neither does Snape. Please review, first fanfiction.
1. Chapter 1

One day, during a lecture in Potions class, Harry notices Snape's hands. He has never taken notice of any part of Snape in detail, that is to say, rather than sniping about his large, beaky nose or whispering about his limp, greasy hair, but never in detail and _never_ like this. This time, it is different.

Snape stands at the front of the dank, dark classroom, half hidden in shadow. He is barking out ingredients and methods, looking for all the world like a huge wolf crouched over a recent kill, picking apart the potion in depth in front of him with a savage intensity.

Harry watches, absorbed in the spider-like motions of the long, pale fingers, the way the hands can snap the hardest root; yet delicately peel the skin from the smallest of petals, quickly and efficiently and with seemingly minimal effort. The nails are short - no-fuss, no-nonsense nails, just as Harry expects from Snape - but are surprisingly clean; no hint of muck or dirt beneath the nail beds.

The fingers themselves are just too long, not too thick and not too thin, and Harry stares as, during his sharp lecture, Snape wraps them around his wand, dances them along the back of his chair, taps them lightly upon the edge of his desk. The skin on the palms is a shade darker than the rest of the hands; slightly stained perhaps, from the endless years of potion-brewing, but not dirty.

Snape lightly trails his index and middle fingers over his cheekbone in a gesture of thought, and Harry cannot look away – he is transfixed upon those two long, pale fingers.

He notices that the hands are calloused and appear rough, but Harry imagines that they would be warm and velvety on his skin, and as he thinks this strange thought, a

scorching hot trickle of desire curls around Harry's insides, flooding simultaneously to his cheeks and his groin. A short sigh puffs from Harry's lips, before he bites down on

to his bottom lip in pleasure. Suddenly, with a flick of his wrist, Snape's hands disappear into the black folds of his robes, and Harry blinks and looks upwards – directly

into Snape's eyes.

The usual smirk that Snape wears is gone, and in its place is a blank stare. Harry sees the slightest twitch of a muscle in Snape's forehead before he turns away and after a painstaking second, carries on reading from the board at the front of the dank classroom. It is a while before Harry notices that he is being watched by his classmates, and when he does he feels his cheeks starting to burn and ducks his head, pretending to concentrate on his note-taking. Eventually, after what seems a lifetime, the class forgets the strange exchange and return to their note-taking, note-passing, or whatever it is they are doing to pass the time. Harry does not look at Snape's hands again.

After the lesson, Ron jogs up to Harry and jostles him with his shoulder.

"What was that all about mate? You looked like a tomato!" Ron says, without tact as always. Harry decides to neglect to mention the colour that Ron turns when he is embarrassed, and instead just shrugs.

"Dunno. Just daydreaming."

"Oh really, what about? You seemed pretty into it!" Ron chuckles at this thought, and then his face drops. " Hey! You better not have been thinking 'bout my sister!" Ron genuinely looks angry at this thought, and Harry has the urge to laugh – if only Ron knew what he was really thinking about.

"No, Ronny, I was not thinking about your sisters lovely, long, tanned legs," Harry drawls, but regrets this comment when his friends face begins to contort and turn red at an astonishing pace. "No, seriously Ron I'm just kidding, I was just bored. Come on, you were daydreaming too - its Potions!" Harry quickly changes the conversation to the upcoming Qudditch match, relieved when Ron doesn't press the subject.

The rest of the week passes somewhat smoothly for Harry. Wednesday, Gryffindor beats Ravenclaw 170 to 20, and the celebrations last all night, Thursday, Harry - with ample prodding from Hermione - completes one of his major homework assignments before joining Ron and Hermione and others in his year by the lake, making the most of the exceptional May weather.

Thursday night, Harry dreams of hands. Warm rough hands touching him, short nails lightly scraping his skin. Heavenly torture. In his dream, the long, slick fingers are massaging him, sliding from the tip of his collarbones, swirling around each pert nipple, slipping down the length of his body, until they are at his groin, pressing pleasingly into his skin and touching him and feeling him and squeezing and pulling just there and oh! Suddenly Harry is awake. Confused and embarrassed, Harry waits, panting, as the warm liquid on his body slowly cools, and tries not to think about the fact that it was Snape's hands that he was dreaming about.

Friday morning brings a cloudy sky and a cold breeze, and sufficiently dampers the mood of the school. Harry wakes up late, and falls over twice while hopping to get his socks on, and, once sat down at the Gryffindor table at breakfast, realizes he has left his wand upstairs. He decides to get it once he has eaten, and slides into place next to Ron and across from Hermione.

"No Ronald, I will _not_ write your assignment for you… oh, morning Harry… what do you think I am, a human computer?" Hermione screeches quietly, something Harry is amazed that she is actually able to do.

"A what? How did you even manage to do it in the first place? You were out there at the lake with the rest of us!" Ron looks affronted and Hermione clicks her tongue.

"I actually listen and I work hard, that's how I manage it, and Harry managed it too! I'm surprised _you_ even made it to seventh year!" With this, Hermione grabs her bulging book bag and leaves, leaving Ron gaping, and Harry laughing behind a piece of toast.

"Lover's tiff?" Harry jokes, and Ron snorts.

"Yeah right. I really like her Harry, I do, bu... its…not fa…w.…sh…"

Harry fades out, not listening to what Ron is saying, as he spots Snape at the Head Table. Harry blushes, remembering his dream, but carries on watching as Snape picks up an orange and peels it quickly and deftly. Snape's black eyes flick up to meet Harry's, and he feels a strange rush of panic and pleasure before dropping his eyes back to his plate.

"Oy… oy! Harry, are you listening?" Harry snaps his head back up to see Ron frowning at him.

"You weren't listening were you? I saw you staring at Snape! Hey! You're blushing again!"

"Ron! Shut up!" Harry whispers, and he looks around to see if anyone is listening. Ron looks confused.

"Mate, what is going on?"

Harry shakes his head, "Nothing, really nothing. Just zoned out for a bit there." He stands up, picks up his piece of toast and his bag.

"I left my wand in the dorm, I'm gonna go and get it. Save me a seat in Potions will you?" Before Ron can reply, Harry sets off down the Great Hall, running once he passes the huge doors to the Entrance Hall.

Some time later Harry leans up against the outside wall of the Potions classroom to catch his breath. Once he feels his body temperature start to cool, he straightens up, hitches his bag up his shoulder, and pushes his way through the door.

"Well, well. Late again Mister Potter," Snape purrs, "It will have to be 10 points from Gryffindor." At this, the Gryffindors and Slytherins start to complain and snigger respectively. Snape waits, glaring around the room, and the sounds start to cease. Then, he looks back at Harry, who feels a tremor run down his spine.

"Sit down Potter. Or, are you idiotic enough to think that I will not give you a weeks worth of detentions?" Harry finds the empty space next to Ron and sits down quickly.

Again tonight, Harry dreams of hands. This time, however, the hands are accompanied by a voice; a deep, rumbling baritone that shivers through Harry like poison. He cannot make out what the voice is saying, but it licks over him, a hand on his chest and a breath by his ear, and once again Harry wakes up to the waves of an orgasm.

The seconds then minutes then hours pass by, and Harry sits and listens to the sounds of the Gryffindor boy's dorm – snores and grunts mixed in with the howl of the wind and patter of the rain on the window. Harry dreams of hands again, _Snape's_ hands, but this time he is awake and aroused within an inch of his life. Giddy with pleasure and addled by sleeplessness, Harry grabs his Invisibility cloak, pulls on a t-shirt and some pajama bottoms and escapes the dorm room, pushes past the portrait hole and steps out into the corridor. _Fresh air_, Harry thinks, _I need fresh air_, and he lets his feet carry him through the silent corridors of Hogwarts, past sleeping portraits and murmuring suits of armour.

When Harry looks up again from his trance, he is shocked. His feet have led him down into the dungeons; he can tell by the colder temperature and the lack of pleasant-looking portraits on the walls. Harry pulls out a scrappy bit of parchment from a pocket and consults it, running a hand through his hair as he scans the map for his location.

"Professor Severus Snape's Quarters" Harry murmurs, astonished, and sure enough the map quite clearly labels a door at the end of the corridor with this title. Looking up hesitantly from the map, Harry sees the door – black and inconspicuous for the flaming torches lighting it at either side. Harry pulls off his cloak and walks to the door, his

breath puffing out like dragon smoke before him, and pauses. A minute passes before he has built up enough of his Gryffindor courage, and he reaches out and knocks

quietly on the door. Shaking his head, he begins to turn away, but changes his mind, turns back, and knocks loudly once, twice, three times.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you Thank you Thank you to my lovely reviewers, you made me so happy

Yes, I know, this one's a short one, sorry! But to make up for it I'll work extra hard to post the next chapter tomorrow, promise ;) :D Enjoy!

hpsshpsshpss

Harry stands, looking up at the large black door, his heart thumping a thousand beats a second. For one horrible moment he feels awake and feels like a complete fool – surely he will be rejected, sent back to his dorm and probably, no _definitely _embarrassed in front of all his classmates, and what is he thinking anyway? Snape? Snape, the greasy, ugly, hateful _man_? Man!

Harry is about to turn on his heel and run, but suddenly he hears footsteps behind the door and all of his senses seem to go wrong. Harry's brain flashes lightening quick images of his earlier dream in front of his eyes, and he is washed once again with lust.

The door knob squeaks and turns and adrenaline races through Harry's body. The door opens a third of the way and there, Snape, still towering and imposing in a white shirt and slacks, is stood in the doorway.

"Wh… Potter?" Snape looks completely aghast – the emotion looking out of place upon his features – and is silent for a second. Then, he frowns.

"Has the Headmaster sent you?" Harry shakes his head.

"No sir."

"Please enlighten me to why you are stood outside my door at _one_ in the morning Potter. And if it is not a good reason, believe me when I say you will not see daylight for weeks."

Harry opens his mouth and then stops. What can he say? 'Sir I'm having wet dreams about you'? 'Sir you and your hands turn me on'? No.

"Your time is up. Potter, get in here immediately." Snape's low growl rumbles into Harry's ears, and he starts. Snape is inviting him in?

Harry follows Snape in through the door, and a blast of warm, fragrant air hits him in the face. A log burning fireplace is situated against a wide expanse of brown wall, with bookshelves at either end. Around the room there is a green sofa, and an un-matching dark green armchair placed next to the fire. There are three doors in the room: the one Harry has just come through, and two others, presumably leading to further rooms. To one side there is a desk, covered in neatly stacked pieces of parchment and two black quills. Next to the desk stands an ornate cabinet, the door of which is ajar, and inside Harry spots the glint of an amber bottle. The room has a distinct smell of whisky, masked by the woody fragrance of the fire, and as Snape passes the cabinet, he knocks the door shut with his leg. Too late though – Harry has seen the drink, can smell the drink, and wonders to himself if Snape's invitation was an influence of the drink.

Snape turns swiftly, lifting his wand, and Harry jumps back, shielding himself protectively with his hands. He does not hear the murmured incantation, but the hair on his right arm ruffles as the spell whispers past him. The door clicks, locked, and Harry once again feels like a fool, lowering his arms to his sides.

"You will stay here and you will not touch anything." Snape's voice is sharp, cutting, and he turns away, exiting through one of the doors.

The heady incense of the room makes Harry's head spin; he can't think straight, and he easily obeys Snape's order – behaving like an idiot will not improve his appeal. Harry glances round the room; it is warm, comfortable, but he is no longer tired – the adrenaline pumping through his body will not allow it. He blinks twice, rubbing his hands over his eyes. Suddenly, he starts. His arousal has fully diminished, and he is no longer being spurred on by lust. Harry panics, and stumbles to the door. He grabs the knob, twist and pulls, but the door is stuck fast. In his haste, he forgets about his wand and pulls and heaves at the door like a Muggle.

"I thought I told you to not touch anything, Potter." Snape's voice pierces Harry, and he spins round, flattening his back against the door. Snape stalks up to Harry and grabs him by the chin, lifting his head up to lock eyes with him. _No, no! _Harry's brain is shouting at him, but too late, he can smell potions and fire and whisky and the warmth of Snape, and now he is pressing his body up against Snape's wantonly, his hands scrabbling against the door…

Snape raises a hand, and then with a sudden shove, pushes Harry back against the door, holding him in place. Snape's eyes are burning into his own, searching, and now Harry feels an unmistakable ruffling in his mind. He tries to shove Snape backwards, but he is holding Harry in a vice grip; tries to close his eyes but he cannot tear his eyes away. Images are flashing in front of his eyes: old images of Harry before Hogwarts, scenes of Harry laughing with his friends, Harry in Potions class staring at Snape's hands… Harry feels a tug in his mind, and Snape has found what he is looking for; his actions tonight are replayed in his mind: the dream, the desire, the confusion, embarrassment and the need. In his mind, Harry sees Snape shoving him against the door, and suddenly the sensation in his mind disappears.

Harry's face is burning red, as he looks up at Snape, stood stock still in the same position as in his memory. The Potions Master's face is a blank mask, but his eyes are burning with rage or hunger, Harry can't tell. They stand like this for what seems like hours to Harry, but he knows it is only seconds before he is pushed to the side and the door is opened.

"Get out of my room this instant Potter. LEAVE!" Snape grabs Harry by the scruff of the collar, and bodily throws him out of the room. Harry scrapes his elbow and knee before his reflexes kick in and he jumps to his feet, spinning to face the door. He hears "50 points from Gryffindor" before the door slams shut, the draft blowing out one of the torches on the wall.


	3. Chapter 4

Harry lies in bed, his face turned into the pillow. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck __**fuck! **_He thinks, _WHY did I just do that? _He groans, muffling it in the pillow, and punches the bed beside him.

_My life is __**over.**_

The next morning, Harry does not want to get up. Ron shouts him, but he doesn't answer, waiting until he hears the click of the door before getting up and stretching. He feels like he is going to be sick, so he stumbles to the bathroom and slumps over the toilet. Nothing comes however, and Harry soon decides that staring into the bowl of the loo is not going to make him feel better. Unsure whether or not to go down to breakfast, he hesitates, but then the thought of the word being spread around school without him doing anything is too much, and he hastens to get dressed. Entering the Great Hall, Harry is met with neither stares nor whispers – in fact, the atmosphere is as it is most days – so he slumps down in his usual seat next to Ron.

"You alright mate? Sorry I didn't wait for you, I thought you were asleep." Ron stuffs another sausage into his mouth, and Harry laughs.

"No, I wasn't, just feeling a bit ill."

Hermione looks up from her breakfast at this, in the mother-hen role as usual.

"Ill? Are you sure you're alright? You know Madame Pomfrey can fix anything, maybe you should go-"

"Nah, Hermione I'm fine now. Just hunger pains I think." To demonstrate this, Harry forks some bacon into his mouth and grins, satisfying Hermione's need to coddle.

Chewing his bacon slowly, Harry tries to subtlety look for Snape by turning his head to smile at other members of his house. Snape is nowhere to be seen, and Harry breathes a sigh of relief - the sight of Snape would be too much embarrassment to bear.

"Harry, are you coming to Hogsmeade today?" Hermione touches Harry's arm, and he turns to her and smiles.

"Oh yeah, it's the weekend!"

Ron looks at him, and snorts.

"What, did you forget? You ninny!"

Harry smiles to himself – the weekend. The weekend means no lessons, no Potions, no Snape. A whole two days away from the prospect of embarrassment and shame.

Unluckily for Harry, the weekend comes and goes quickly; so quickly in fact, that he wakes up on Monday morning late again. _Shit, _he thinks, as he runs down the stairs five at a time, _late for Potions again! _

Harry bursts into the classroom this time, breathing heavily and sweating, and the whole class including Snape turns to look at him. Harry, however, is just watching Snape, gauging his reaction, waiting for him to strike… but Snape merely sneers at him and turns away. Shocked, Harry takes his seat amidst the murmuring students, and shrugs at Ron, whose eyes look ready to pop out of his skull.

Throughout the rest of the lesson, Snape does not even look over to Harry's side of the classroom, and instead stalks through his favoured Slytherin students. Many of the Gryffindors grin at Harry, nudging him and giving him the thumbs-up, but Harry can only return these gestures half-heartedly.

At the end of the lesson, as the rest of the class is packing away, Snape stalks up to Harry's desk, throwing him into shadow. He looks up to see Snape sneering down at him.

"Detention for being late, Potter. I expect to see you waiting outside this room at nine o'clock." With that said, Snape walks away to his desk, Harry staring incredulously at his back. Snape stops, without turning.

"What are you waiting for Potter?" Harry grabs up his bag and leaves, jogging to keep up with his classmates.

At quarter to nine that night, Harry is stood in the bathroom of his dorm, forehead pressed against the mirror. After some thought, he looks up at himself, scruffing his hair up one way, then flattening it down the other. He sniffs his armpits, then grabs a bottle of cologne from the shelf, and sprays it onto his neck. The mirror coos at him.

"Ooh hot date tonight, love? You look dashing!"

Harry grimaces and splashes water on his neck, scruffing up his hair again. What was he thinking? Cologne? This is detention! When Harry is satisfied that he has got rid of the smell of cologne as much as possible, he dons his outer robe and sets off for the dungeons.

"Good luck mate!" Ron shouts as he climbs through the portrait hole, and Harry laughs to himself. He needs all the good luck he can get.

Stood outside the door, Harry looks at his watch. It is only 8:56 – he is five minutes early. Chewing nervously on his lip, he paces to and fro in front of the door, running possible things to say to Snape about Friday night in his head.

Harry looks down at his watch: 8:47. The minutes creep slowly forward, and Harry's anticipation builds. All of a sudden, a voice floats through the door, making Harry start.

"Come in Potter."

Harry pauses as a tremor runs down his spine, and then boldly pushes the door open. The classroom is dark, and it takes Harry a couple of seconds to see Snape; sat behind his desk writing on a piece of parchment. Snape doesn't look up, and Harry hovers nervously at the back of the classroom.

"Sir?" Harry bursts, unable to keep silent for a moment longer. Snape places his quill down slowly on the desk, and then spears him with a look.

"Yet again, you were late for my lesson. I am beginning to get the impression that you find my detestable Potter. In fact, if I didn't know otherwise, surely I would think that that is the case." Harry blushes, and Snape stands up, an evil glint in his eye.

"You will scrub the cauldrons in this classroom to my satisfaction, Mister Potter. And don't think that you can leave this classroom before I am _fully_ satisfied with your work."

Harry gulps, his mouth dry at Snape's use of the word 'satisfy', and walks to Snape's desk to retrieve the scrubbing item – a toothbrush. Keeping his head down, he turns to find his first cauldron but stops when Snape speaks.

"Cologne, potter? You smell like teenage lust." Harry self-consciously rubs at his neck with his sleeve, and Snape smirks. His face reddening more than he thought possible, Harry turns away from Snape to get on with his work. For twenty-two minutes Harry works silently at the back of the classroom, slowly but surely reducing the pile of dirty cauldrons. He refuses to look up at the Potions Master, embarrassed and shamed, repeating a mantra of '_Friday night was just a dream' _in his head.

Finally, after forty-six minutes, Harry is done, and he drops the toothbrush to the floor with a sigh, stretching his arms up above his head. Mid-stretch, he sneaks a glance at Snape, and is shocked still.

Snape's chair is no longer behind his desk; both Snape and the chair now situated at the far length of the classroom facing Harry. Next to the Potions master sits a bottle of whisky, three quarters full, and Snape sits, his outer robe discarded, twirling an empty glass in one hand.

Snape is smirking, self-satisfied, at Harry, slouched back in the chair seemingly in great comfort. Dropping his arms, Harry tries to remember when he heard Snape move, but concludes that the man must have some sort of super-power; he managed to change position completely silently.

"Sir?" Harry does not know what to say, but stares up at Snape apprehensively.

Snape seems to consider him for a moment, looking Harry up and down, and Harry crosses an arm across his body, shielding himself from Snape's piercing gaze.

Snape stands, places his glass on his desk beside him, and begins to slowly walk towards Harry, stalking him like a hungry wolf. Harry blanches, aware that he has likened Snape to a wolf twice now. Harry steps backwards hesitantly, but suddenly Snape is in front of him, standing only a hands-width apart.

Harry is scared, and in his panic he drops to his knees, hearing them bang heavily against the ground. His head falls forward, and he watches Snape's feet as he will surely step towards him, or walk away, or do _something. _However, Snape doesn't move, and Harry waits impatiently.

After twenty seconds of agonizing silence, Snape takes a step back.

"Get out Potter." Snape sounds angry, and Harry is embarrassed, so he does not wait around to try and change the Potion Master's mind. Pushing himself to his feet, he grabs his bag and runs out of the door without once looking at Snape's face.


End file.
